This superb piece of imaginative prose, of which Shorthouse himself might have been proud,[9] is recalled by an answering note in Ryecroft, in which he says, 'I owe many a page to the street-organs.'
And, where the pathos has to be distilled from dialogue, I doubt if the author of Jack himself could have written anything more restrainedly touching or in a finer taste than this:—
[Footnote 9: I am thinking, in particular, of the old vielle-player's conversation in chap. xxiii. of John Inglesant; of the exquisite passage on old dance music—its inexpressible pathos—in chap. xxv.]
'Laughing with kindly mirth, the old man drew on his woollen gloves and took up his hat and the violin-bag. Then he offered to say good-bye.
"But you're forgetting your top-coat, grandad," said Lydia.
"I didn't come in it, my dear."
"What's that, then? I'm sure we don't wear such things."
She pointed to a chair, on which Thyrza had just artfully spread the gift. Mr. Boddy looked in a puzzled way; had he really come in his coat and forgotten it? He drew nearer.
"That's no coat o' mine, Lyddy," he said.
Thyrza broke into a laugh.